


Jackets

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, coat envy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clothes don't always make the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jackets

**Author's Note:**

> Written after seeing Series 1, but no real spoilers for that season, and definitely nothing for Series 2. It's a fairly silly little fic inspired by coats. Yes, that coat in particular. This contains little action, but does include the wanton destruction of utilitarian but styleless clothes. Plus coat envy.

On the whole, John Watson did not consider himself a jealous man. He did not begrudge the successful careers that graced most of his fellow graduates from medical school. He only felt satisfaction at the advancement of his former mates in the Army (those that survived). He certainly did not covet his sister’s relative wealth and status.

But if he was honest with himself (and he generally was), there were a few things that raised the green flags of envy in John’s heart. And right near the top of the list was Sherlock’s coat.

It wasn’t just the obvious warmth of the thing, although that was no small part of John’s envy. Standing around freezing-cold crime scenes, shivering in his old (and entirely inadequate) canvas jacket, he quickly noticed Sherlock always looked as warm as toast. He apparently never felt the chill or the damp, and it wasn’t (as Sherlock claimed) just because he was mentally above that sort of thing. Maybe mental detachment played a part, but John was certain that the fully lined, thick, soft wool fabric also played a significant role.

And then there was the way Sherlock _looked_ in that coat. His flatmate already had natural advantages of height and grace. Put him in that coat, and he went from merely tall (and rather gawky, it had to be said) to _dramatic_ and _imposing_. Practically _heroic_ , and all because of a particularly nobby bit of tailoring. John had seen the effect before, in uniforms particularly, but never so much so as with that coat. In a world where most people (John included) were simple punctuation marks, like commas or periods, Sherlock was naturally an exclamation mark, but in that coat he was a whole _series_ of them. Without even trying. He looked born to save the world, or command it, or both. He wouldn’t look out of place on the telly, dashing around saving the universe with the Doctor or the Torchwood crew in a Christmas special. That coat must have cost a bloody fortune, but given the effect, John figured it was worth every penny of it to Sherlock.

Yeah, that coat worked wonders. At least John told himself that, and even mostly believed it, until the day he wound up wearing it.

It had been an extremely trying day even _before_ his coat wound up splattered – no, liberally coated – with the incredibly foul, vomit-inducing gunk used as a booby-trap by the smugglers at the river warehouse. It was only thanks to John’s quick reflexes that the stuff had sprayed onto the left side of his coat, and not all over his face and hands as well. As it was, he barely had time to register it. He simply slithered out of his coat – careful even in his rush not to touch the goop – and went rushing off in pursuit of Sherlock, who (naturally enough) had run after the smuggler’s leader with no thought of self-preservation. The smuggler, no fool, tried to lose Sherlock in the warren of warehouses and alleys by the river front. Sherlock stuck to him like glue, ignoring every danger. John ran himself breathless catching up. Breathless and sopping, because the rain was pissing down like the start of the second Flood. By the time they had the man in custody, John was drenched through. Once the adrenaline of the run left his system, he started shaking with cold, and then aching with it. He tried to control his shivering, but it was a lost cause. After arriving on the scene, Lestrade gave him several sympathetic looks. John could just imagine what he looked like – something like a drowned rat, probably.

Lestrade’s concerned attention did not go unnoticed. Or maybe it was one of Sherlock’s kinder days, at least as far as his flatmate was concerned. “Here,” he said, shrugging out of his precious coat and draping it over John’s shoulders as if it was nothing important.

Even with the outside dripping with wet, the interior was warm with Sherlock’s own body heat, dry as a bone, and incredibly soft. “Th-thanks,” John stuttered, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“It works better if you put it all the way on, John,” Sherlock dismissed John’s gratitude before turning back to Lestrade.

John stripped off his now-useless, soaking-wet cotton jumper first. There was no point in having it dripping all over the inside of Sherlock’s coat. He briefly considered pulling off his equally-wet cotton undershirt as well, but he didn’t exactly feel like exposing his scarred shoulder to the curious eyes of London’s Finest. He’d rather make do and hope that the relatively thin fabric would dry out quickly.

Sherlock’s coat was a little tight across the shoulders, too long in the sleeves, and nearly came down to his ankles – and John didn’t care in the slightest. It was heavy and warm and _perfect_. Just absolutely splendid, even if he didn’t dare stick his hands in the pockets for fear of what might be in them. Wearing the coat was like being wrapped in a fluffy warm towel, if that towel was made out of whatever silky-soft lining stuff inside this coat that caressed every inch of John’s bare arms. No wonder Sherlock wore this coat everywhere, anytime the weather looked foul enough to justify it. It felt _wonderful_.

Judging from a few of the odd looks that he got from Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest, though, John quickly guessed that he, unlike Sherlock, didn’t exactly _look_ wonderful in Sherlock’s coat. In fact, Donovan’s little smirk made John feel rather nervous. John knew he was no Sherlock, no exclamation point, but he couldn’t look _that_ bad in this coat, could he? No one could look truly awful in this miracle of modern tailoring, could they?

Apparently he could. There weren’t any mirrors handy in the alley where they’d finally run the smuggler to ground, of course, but one of the nearby buildings was a bit of urban renewal, a shiny thing of metal and concrete and reflective one-way glass that was the next best thing. John wryly considered the image reflected back at him. At best, he looked like a block of fabric topped with a drenched, blond-brown head and a pale face. At worst – and really, worst was the most truthful interpretation – he looked like the sort of bloke that he’d keep a very sharp eye on, if he encountered someone like that in an alley or on the Underground. Somebody who might be just homeless, or maybe a flasher, but either way the kind of person others would instinctively avoid, in the ‘oh _God_ how pathetic’ kind of way. Not even scary, just sad.

John sighed and tried not to feel depressed. At least he was warm. With any luck at all, Bob, Sherlock’s miracle cleaner friend, could salvage his own coat. If not, maybe the next bargain-bin sale or second-hand coat he found would suit him a little better than the one currently covered in whatever that foul stuff was. The way he damaged, lost, or otherwise got separated from coats, he couldn’t afford to think about buying anything actually suited to him. Warm and relatively waterproof and not too dear was the best he could hope for.

Two days later, John was still jacketless, and very much feeling the lack. His old coat was indeed a total loss, according to Bob, and John hadn’t had any luck finding a replacement. For one, it was too cold and miserable out to go much of anywhere without a jacket, which made shopping for one a challenge. For another, apparently cold-and-wet season was exactly the _wrong_ time to try and buy something to keep you dry and warm. All the first-hand stores were filled with lightweight spring stuff, and the bargain and second-hand stores were entirely picked over. He’d almost picked up a supposed “Peruvian sheepherder’s poncho” from an Oxfam store, but even he wasn’t quite desperate enough to wear something made up of orange, pink, and brown yarn. Not yet.

But he couldn’t keep hanging around the flat and avoiding going out, either. He had a locum shift at the clinic the next day. He’d just have to double up on sweaters, carry a brolly, and hope for the best. Maybe Sarah might have an idea where to shop for winter coats out of season…

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s cheerful tones echoed into the flat several seconds before she actually made an appearance at the door. “Oh hello, dear,” she greeted him casually. “I thought you were both in. Is Sherlock out?”

“He’s in his room.” John inclined his head towards the door where Sherlock’s pajama-clad form had vanished through a few minutes before. “Is that box for him?” he added, noticing the parcel she held.

“No, dear, the boy told me it was for you.” She handed the flat, large white cardboard box to him. “I didn’t know you were expecting a delivery.”

“I wasn’t,” John said, eyeing the parcel with some suspicion. The box was relatively heavy despite its lightweight construction, and tied closed with brown twine done up in a simple bow. There was absolutely no indication of what it was or where it had come from. “Who delivered it? And are you sure they said it was for me?”

“You’re the only Dr. John Watson in residence,” Mrs. Hudson said dryly. “And he was just a delivery boy. You really should keep an eye out when you’re expecting packages. You can’t expect me to notice and take delivery. I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” She gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “Now I’ve got to get back to my programme.”

“But I wasn’t…” John trailed off as Mrs. Hudson made her exit, humming.

John found himself alone in the sitting room with a package of dubious provenance, wondering what the hell to do about it. Judging from the way Mrs. Hudson had slung it about, if it were something liable to blow up through jostling, they’d already be sky-high. Which didn’t mean it mightn’t hold a very nasty surprise. It didn’t rattle. His stethoscope (fetched from his medical bag) detected no ominous tickings or beepings, nothing but silence. And really, the box itself was so incredibly flimsy, it was hard to imagine it masking a bomb. Anthrax, sure, but nothing likely to go boom.

But really, who used oversized shirt boxes to deliver packages, anyway…? The box looked vaguely familiar, now that he thought about it.

Oh, right! Bob the miracle-man cleaner used them, when delivering bulkier items for Sherlock. Maybe he’d been able to salvage John’s coat after all. Slightly relieved, John snipped away the string and cautiously lifted away the lid.

There, nestled inside a layer of tissue, was a jacket –but not John’s shabby, much-abused canvas coat. John lifted it out with reverence. This was leather, black, buttery-soft, but not at all delicate. The surface reflected the light in the room with a dull gleam, not shiny, but glossy with the fine texture of the grain and finish. Treated with something, it felt like. John would bet five pounds that water would bead up and roll right off its surface. Inside, it was lined with a dark, wine-colored fabric that John thought might be wool, except he’d never felt wool that soft.

There were no labels on the inside of the coat. None of any kind, not anywhere.

There had to be some kind of mistake. John knew this, but he couldn’t help himself. He just had to try the thing on. He shrugged into it, appreciating its weight. It felt durable, solid. _Old_ , in the been-around-for-years and meant-to-last-generations meaning of the word.

The jacket fit him perfectly. He did up the metal zipper and the snaps on the zipper flap, and then fastened the belt around his waist. It felt like a second skin. A deliciously warm, comfortable second skin that covered him from the top of the high-necked collar to the ends of his wrists and the middle of his thighs, all moulded to his shape. He twisted, trying out how it felt when he moved. No constriction. No restriction. Everything he did, it moved right with him.

There was even a slit in the back, perfect for sitting down, and more importantly, reaching through to where he normally carried his gun.

Stunned, he made his way to the loo and looked at himself in the full-length mirror bolted onto the back of the door. The man who looked back at him wasn’t flashy, not like Sherlock in his coat. Not an exclamation point. But he wasn’t a comma, either. He looked professional, and competent, and ever so slightly dangerous. He wouldn’t grab your eye, but if you did notice him, you couldn’t help see…something. Someone not just utilitarian, but polished and capable, someone you could trust, someone you wouldn’t want to cross.

He looked _full stop_.

A door banged against the wall, and John hastily opened the door to see what was going on. He was just in time to see Sherlock bound out of his room, fully dressed, mobile in hand, and catapult himself towards the sitting room.

“John! I just got a text from Lestrade, two bodies in a locked utility closet in Kensington, both missing their left ears…John?” He paused, his pale eyes quickly scanning the empty sitting room.

“What part of Kensington?” John asked automatically, already thinking of how long it might take to get there at this time of day.

Sherlock spun to face him, and froze. John found himself on the receiving end of Sherlock’s scrutiny, the full force of his flatmate’s attention almost a physical thing. It only lasted a second or two, but in that time John was certain Sherlock had taken in _everything_ , as usual. His friend’s eyes gleamed, and he gave John a sideways smile. “Near Holland Park. I’m glad to see you’re finally dressed for the weather.”

John blinked, then remembered what he was wearing. “It’s not mine.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course it’s yours.”

“No, I…”

“I knew you’d have trouble replacing your jacket at this time of year. Bob told me he thought he might have something suitable among his unclaimed items, and if he did, he’d send it over. Which he obviously did.” Once again Sherlock’s eyes swept over John. “It suits you.”

John’s head spun as he tried to take this in. The coat was perfect, no question. It was also unquestionably worth far more than John could afford. “But I…”

“ _Bo_ -ring,” Sherlock sing-songed. “Really, John. It’s taken care of. Now we’ve a murderer to catch. Coming?”

This wasn’t the last word on the subject, not by a long shot, but it would wait. Sherlock wouldn’t. They could have this out later. “Right behind you.”

Between one thing and another, they never did have it out. By the time they’d tracked down the ear-stealing serial killer, nearly a week had gone by, and in that time, the black leather jacket had somehow magically become indisputably _John’s_. It kept him warm and dry, had plenty of pockets for holding mobiles, gloves, ammunition, and random bags of evidence, and never slowed him down.

And the looks on Donovan’s and Anderson’s faces, the first time they saw him in it, were _priceless_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted February 27, 2011

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Jackets [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/394799) by [hardboiledbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby)




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